


the grande facade so soon will burn

by badboy_fangirl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:08:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badboy_fangirl/pseuds/badboy_fangirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Puck and Rachel begin to see each other in a new, sexy light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the grande facade so soon will burn

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this fic is taken from the Peter Gabriel song "In Your Eyes." Many thanks to andbless_mybaby for her beta services. There were minor corrections made after the original posting with regard to the Jewish terminology for their religious services.

He strolls into the choir room on a regular Thursday afternoon to find it totally empty. It takes him a second to remember that Glee has been canceled today because of some meeting Schue had (guess his wife is giving him a real hard time about the divorce), but the disappointment catches him by surprise.

Basketball practice doesn't start for an hour, so he could go home and grab something to eat, but just as that thought crosses his mind, he notices something in the corner, behind the drum set. A backpack sits there, and he wonders if someone besides him has forgotten about the cancellation.

He gets right up on the bag before he recognizes it as Rachel Berry's. He couldn't see the gold stars sown on it from across the room, but up close they are pretty fucking impossible to miss. She is so whack.

Kinda hot, but totally whack. Or maybe totally hot, and kinda whack? Whatever.

What would a girl like Berry haul around in her bag? For half a second he imagines all kinds of weird kinky stuff, but in reality there's a couple of schoolbooks, a notebook, and a paperback book, nothing exciting at all. He pulls the paperbook out and flips it over.

 _Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West_ gleams up at him, the florescent lights overhead shining off the vivid green letters of W-I-C-K-E-D. He slides his finger into the spot where a frilly tasseled bookmark sticks out. (The bookmark reads: _Dream lofty dreams, and as you dream, so shall you become,_ and has clouds and stars and other shit all over it, which makes it just perfect for Rachel, he has to admit.) He reads:

 _When the girls forgot to draw their drapes—which was astoundingly often—you could see them in various stages of undress. Never the whole body naked, of course, in that case he would have looked away, or told himself sternly that he had better. But the pinkness and the whiteness of underskirts and camisoles, the frilliness of the foundation garments, the rustle about the bustle and the fuss of the bust. It was an education in lingerie if nothing else._

He glances up, checking the clock, and sees that he still has 55 minutes until he needs to dress down for practice. This book might be kinda dirty, if the dude mans up and stops peeping on those girls, but actually takes advantage of the fact that they obviously want him to look at them. (Puck is an expert on the subtle sexual moves of the female species.) He would have never guessed this book had any kind of sexy stuff in it.

Slinging himself down on to one of the plastic chairs, he's only been reading a few minutes—and has begun to suspect that the part he's already found is the raciest part of the whole book—when Rachel says his name in slight exasperation, and makes him look up.

She stands just inside the doorway, one hand on her hip (the other holds a bulky mass of clothes), with irritation on her face. But he doesn't spend much time looking at her face, because her smoking body steals his attention. She's wearing a short black dress; it hits her mid-thigh and has tiny silver straps that rest on her bare shoulders. Her legs are covered by these shiny tights that literally sparkle as she starts walking towards him, and she's got three-inch heels on her feet, which makes those shiny legs look longer and even better than they normally did. "Give me my book, Noah Puckerman," she commands.

Marching to a stop right in front of him, she stands only the length of his legs away from him, because he has them stretched out and crossed at the ankle. Sitting up straight, he bends his knees and jerks the chair forward a bit so that there is less space between them. "Wow," he mutters before he can check himself. He lets his eyes travel slowly up her body and then he examines her face more closely. She has black eyeliner on, not too much, just the right amount that makes her eyes stand out. "You look hot, Berry," he blurts, but as color fills her cheeks, he's glad he didn't keep himself from saying what came to mind.

It's been a while since just looking at a girl gave him a boner, but he can feel the interest peaking (literally) in the front of his jeans, so he shifts slightly on the chair to accommodate the tightness.

"Thank you," she says primly and then stretches her hand out. "May I please have my book?"

"Why are you all dressed up?" he asks, still holding the book open on his lap.

"My dads and I are driving into Columbus to see a show." She snags her bag from beside his chair and puts the clothes she'd been wearing before inside, as well as a pair of shoes. She sets it back down and motions for the book again.

Playing dumb, he continues to ignore her waggling fingers. "You're driving to Columbus for a movie? And you're dressing like that for it? I'll take you to a movie right here in Lima if you'll wear that." He lets his eyes drift down over her boobs—still acutely aware that she never let him touch them—and he wonders if she's wearing a push-up bra, because they look bigger than the last time he'd ogled them.

"It's a Broadway show, you cretin, not a movie!" she sputters impatiently. "For goodness' sake, Noah, give me my book!"

This time, instead of acting like he hadn't heard her demand, he shuts the book, stands up, and holds it up high so she can't reach it, even in her sexy shoes. She rolls her eyes and crosses her arms over her chest which shoves her boobs up just a bit more and the cleavage he can see from up top makes his mouth water. Forget touching them, he totally wants to get his mouth on them, the sweet little things. "Oh, a _show_ ," he says lazily. "I get it. So your gay dads are well on their way to turning you into the next Barbra Streisand, huh?"

She looks at him strangely before asking, "How do you even know who Barbra Streisand is?"

He laughs and lowers his arm, handing her the book with no further antagonism. "I live in America, Berry. And I'm a Jew; every good Jew knows who Barbra Streisand is."

"Thank you," she says, her fingers curling around the edge of the book. When she pulls her arm back, he jerks her hard towards himself, not letting the book go as easily as she expects. Grunting in frustration, she yanks back, which only succeeds in getting them right up against each other. That, of course, had been his intention.

Grinning down at her, he murmurs, "Did you miss the part where I said I'd take you to the movies?"

"I can't imagine any movie we'd both want to see," Rachel responds icily, tipping her head back slightly to look into his face. Even with the heels, he's still got several inches on her, on account of her being practically pocket-sized to begin with.

His grin gets bigger. "Who cares what movie it is if you're dressed like that?"

"You're deplorable."

"So you've mentioned before, and I figure that must mean something bad. It didn't keep you from making out with me, though." She rolls her eyes again and in a lightning fast move, he rips the book out of her grasp, tossing it to the floor as he wraps his arms around her waist to pull her right into his body. (He has some ninja skills, obviously.) "And now you're reading this dirty book, so I know you're in need of some...services."

She wriggles against him a little bit, and her eyes get wide when she feels what he's not trying to keep her from feeling. She gasps softly and then her chin lifts in determination. " _Wicked_ is not a dirty book. It's a companion piece to _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_ , but tells the Wicked Witch's story. The Broadway show based on it was a huge hit, and broke all kinds of records. The original cast--"

"I know what _Wicked_ is," he interrupts. Generally her rambling sounds like the teacher on _Peanuts_ to him, but he isn't as stupid, or unaware, as he's led everyone to believe.

"You do?"

"Um, yeah. I've got a computer. And my computer has Google. And after you and Hummel went on and on about it, I had to at least know what the fuck you were talking about."

A small smile twists Rachel's lips and then her hands press lightly against his shoulders. "Please let me go, Noah. My dads are probably waiting for me outside."

His selective hearing swings back into full force. "You know, when you sang that song, the one from _Wicked_ , I thought that was pretty much the coolest thing I'd ever seen you do." This is actually a true statement, not something he's just saying to charm her out of her cute little black dress, but if it helps him out, he's not above telling the truth from time to time.

Her eyes narrow suspiciously despite this fact, however. "Sure, you did," she says. Her little hands press harder against his shoulders. "I really have to go."

He wonders if she realizes the effort she's making to keep their top halves apart is only pushing their lower halves more intimately together. Not that he minds, not at all. This is the most action he's had all week. "I've always thought you were an amazing singer," he says, sharing more of his well guarded arsenal of truths. He could add _...and batshit crazy_ , but he bites his tongue instead.

Rachel's head cocks slightly to the right and she examines his face for so long without speaking Puck can feel his skin prickling with heat. "Really?" she says again, skepticism still lacing her words.

"Swear to God," he says, holding up one hand, Boy Scout Style. He stands with it squared to the right, as though his other hand rests on a Bible or something, when really he's letting it drift right down the small of her back to the top of her very fine ass. She squirms against him again and he bites back a growl in his throat. He's a little worried about scaring her off, but of course, this is all unplanned; ten minutes ago he didn't expect to be trying to make it with Rachel Berry at all.

They haven't talked much since the big reveal with Finn, other than Rachel approaching him to apologize and him telling her it was no big deal. He'd been mad at first, but in the end, he was with Quinn in the opinion department. Rachel just did what neither of them had had the balls to do, and Puck couldn't really work up any anger over it. (Well, sometimes he was still pissed at Quinn, or at Finn for forgiving her much faster than he had Puck, but that was a whole other pain in his ass.) Rachel had saved him having to look like the total bad guy to Quinn at least, not that that had helped him much in the long run.

She might be a bit of a freak, but she was a fairly decent chick and she'd been an awesome kisser during that week they'd kicked it as boyfriend and girlfriend.

He didn't like her, exactly; he just sort of didn't hate her anymore, and that created a curiosity that originated in his pants and most likely would stay there unless he was given some other reason to dig her.

Her pipes were definitely a reason to dig her. Girl could sing, as Mercedes would say.

(Not that he quotes Mercedes, or anything.)

She wasn't hard to look at, either, all big eyes and broad smile and legs that should appear to be short, but were somehow miles and miles long. Oh, and her boobs? Definitely bigger. Maybe she was _blossoming_ as his mother called it.

"Noah, I can't figure you out," she says softly, bringing him back to the moment. She's in his arms, and he's got one hand on her ass and she's just looking at him like she's never seen him before.

He skims his hand along her jawline, tucking her hair behind her ear and brushing his fingers over the soft skin of her cheek. "What's to figure out? You're hot, I'm hot, we ought to be making heat together."

"Two good looking Jews, right?" she says, her lips lifting up in a smile. He can feel her breath quickening, though, and he knows she's not unaffected by his not-so-subtle moves here.

"Exactly," he breathes, leaning forward. He doesn't know why it took this day, this outfit, or the suggestions within her not-dirty book for him to see her so clearly. He should have been pursuing this avenue much more than a threesome with Britt and San, or whatever he'd been trying to make happen with Quinn, or just finding freshman ass who didn't know what they were getting into with a stud like Puck.

Oh, that's right. _Finn._ And Rachel's obsession with Finn, that's what the problem had been. He'd made that mistake once before, thinking he could knock Finn Hudson out of a girl's head. He doesn't really think he can survive with his rep intact, or his 'nads for that matter, if he tries it again, and just that fast he lets Rachel go. He chucks her under the chin with one hand and pats her ass lightly with the other, but then he pulls away from her so that they aren't touching at all anymore.

Bending down, he swipes her book from the floor. Handing it to her with no subterfuge, he avoids the questions in her eyes as he swings back around and finds her backpack. "Here," he says, holding the bag out towards her. "You don't want to keep your dads waiting, right?"

She stares at him, speechless. If he wasn't feeling like such a pussy, he might rejoice in the silence he's caused. No one would ever believe he'd gotten Rachel Berry to shut the fuck up. She takes the backpack from him and he heads out of the choir room, walking much faster than he normally does.

As he pushes out through the double doors into the crisp March air, all he cares about is getting that dumbass idea out of his head. Him and Rachel? _Yeah, right_. Totally fucking stupid.

*

Rachel Berry is two things: determined, and _relentless_.

Well, she's other things also, but those are her two most pivotal attributes.

So, on the day when Noah Puckerman surprises her three times in rapid succession (she catches him reading her _book_ , he makes a pass at her, and then he runs away), she stands bereft in the choir room wondering why she feels so...thwarted.

She has to fake a smile for her fathers when they arrive a few minutes later to pick her up for their trip into the city—she’d let them drop her off that morning instead of driving herself with her change of clothes to save time. The school was on the opposite end of town from her house, and this way they could head into the city before rush hour traffic started. She sits first through dinner, and then her favorite musical in the entire world, without soaking in every detail (it's her fourth time, but still. It's _Wicked_! Kurt would be appalled at her behavior). It's because she's distracted by the memory of hazel eyes glazed with heat, and the feel of a muscled body pressed to hers (one that had been excited in a way that made her blush), and the unimaginable mental upset she felt (still feels) at his abrupt departure.

She's quiet in the backseat on the drive home when it strikes her. There is only one possible thing to do: she has to confront Noah about why he ditched her.

She knows he wants her—not that she would have sex with him, or anything—but well, it was just plain rude, what he'd done. He'd all but sexually accosted her, and then he'd sprinted off like someone had caught them. Only no one had, there hadn't been anyone around to witness what she was sure was a complete anomaly.

Regardless of his reasons for not kissing her, he needed to know that behavior was utterly unacceptable. She wouldn't allow someone to manhandle her and then just walk off.

The least he could have done was kiss her. Well, she might leave that part out. She didn't want to encourage him, necessarily. But perhaps she didn't want to _dis_ courage him either.

She's dreadfully confused, come to think of it.

"Honey?" Her father's voice startles her and she opens her eyes. "We're home," he says, his voice soft. She'd drifted off in the backseat thinking about Noah Puckerman, of all people.

The world suddenly makes no sense whatsoever.

*

The next morning she walks up to his locker as he's rifling through it. Papers are falling out all over his feet and she wonders how he could have so much garbage in there. "Noah," she begins and he jumps, takes Jesus's name in vain (is it vain if you're Jewish? she's doesn’t think so), and slams his locker door shut all at once. He immediately starts in on his combination again which leads Rachel to believe that he didn't mean to shut it, but he doesn't actually acknowledge her at all.

"Noah," she tries again. "I'd like to speak to you."

"Too damn bad," he mutters, pulling the door open. He lifts a textbook and a PeeChee folder out and then bends down to pick up the scattered papers at his feet.

"I feel we need to have a conversation," she says, watching him crouching on the floor.

He looks up at her. "Well, I _don't_ , so sorry." He stands up and shoves stuff back into the locker, including the book and folder he'd just pulled out. Then he slams it shut again and walks away without looking back at her.

Rachel's been perplexed by the behavior of boys most of her life, but this is, by far, the strangest thing she's ever witnessed.

"Hey, Rach," Finn says as he and Quinn pass by.

"Hello, Finn," she says with a smile. "How are you feeling, Quinn?" Her eyes automatically drop to Quinn's swollen belly beneath a pretty floral print dress.

"Pretty good, today," Quinn replies, her expression serene.

Rachel waves at them as they continue down the hall. It's funny to think of how much she'd wanted Finn and how jealous she'd been of Quinn. Now when she looks at them, all she feels is gratitude that her mean-spirited efforts to break them up had not been enough to keep them apart. They really loved each other and though Rachel longed for her own perfect match, she didn't begrudge them their happiness.

Turning to head to her first period class, she finds herself thinking thoughts about Noah Puckerman that feel—not so much _wrong_ as just completely _foreign_. She'd wanted him to kiss her. Granted, she knows what a talented tongue he has from their brief week of dating earlier that school year, but that hadn't been the only reason she'd let him grope her.

She covers her mouth with her hand as a small squeal escapes unwarranted. _Dear God_ , does she have a crush on _Puck?_

It's unthinkable really. As she slides into her desk in Mr. Gillespie's American History class, she pulls a sheet of paper out. She needs to make a list of pros and cons.

*

She usually sees him between third and fourth periods--he's on his way to Shop and she's on her way to French, but when they don't cross paths she wonders if he's skipping classes altogether for the day. They don't usually have Glee on Fridays (unless they're closer to a competition), but since Mr. Schue had had an appointment the day before, they were having a special practice today. She hated to leave it until the end of the day, but he wasn't giving her much of a choice.

She's afraid she'll lose her nerve if she has the whole weekend to think on the situation. By Monday, four whole days will have passed, and to accuse him of sexual assault then would be ludicrous. She has to do it today, even if she has concoct some reason for him to stay after practice with her.

At lunchtime, she remembers that she left her Algebra book in her car, so she runs out to get it. That's when she sees his truck, with him in it, on the far end of the parking lot. He's alone, and well, there's nothing like thinking one will never get a chance to say what's on one's mind than having an unexpected opportunity propel one into something rather reckless.

She opens the passenger side door and launches herself up onto the seat (he has oversized tires on what can only be described as a Tonka truck, but she has the legs of a dancer). He swears colorfully again, startled so much that he cracks his head against the driver's side window. "Oh, my God," he breathes. "What the _hell_ is your problem? Get the fuck out of my car, Berry!"

"I want to talk to you," she states, slamming the door behind her.

"I don't give a shit," he growls, leaning over her to jerk the door open again. She reads what he's about to do just milli-seconds before his fingers grip the door handle, so she whips around and pushes the lock button down. Triumphantly she spins back only to hear him cursing more violently. "Get your goddamn hair outta my face!" he shouts, his fingers fruitlessly yarding on the door handle.

"Noah," she says softly. She reaches a hand out towards his and he smacks it back, his palm connecting painfully with her skin. "Ow!" she cries, and then without thinking, she snaps, "Oh, great, first sexually assault me, now, beat me up, why don't you!?"

He leans back from her slowly, his eyes narrowed in anger. It takes a moment for what she said to fully register in his brain, and she can see the wheels turning as she stares at his face. She doesn't know why she hasn't appreciated it before, but he's really so very good looking. Up close, the green of his hazel eyes is more prominent (maybe because of today's weather? she wonders), and his lips are full and pouty, and very distracting when they start moving. "You're a fuckin' lunatic. I didn't sexually assault you." He pauses, and exhales roughly. "And I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you." His hand reaches out towards her, and his fingers brush over the back of her hand, which is a little red from his slap.

Rachel's heart literally turns over in her chest. Every single one of her 'cons' from the list she'd made earlier escape her completely as she looks down and watches his thumb rub over her skin. "Noah, why didn't you kiss me yesterday?" she asks, her voice hushed. It wasn't a conscious thought to tread lightly, but a preservation instinct that rises abruptly within her.

His head tips up as does hers so they're looking into each other's faces, and she can feel his breath against her cheek; he just shrugs and shakes his head.

Rachel leans closer to him and whispers, "I wanted you to," which is stupid, she knows. Giving him the advantage is wrong for so many reasons. There are two types of boys in the world, the Sweet Kind like Finn and the On The Make Kind like Puck, and Rachel's been warned and schooled repeatedly by her fathers on how to handle each kind.

She's using all her Sweet Boy methods completely unwisely.

Their eyes lock, and though she can see layers of knowledge she herself hasn't even skimmed the surface of in the multi-colored irises, there's a vulnerability in his face that makes her do the most insane thing of her life.

She leans forward even more, until there's nothing between their mouths but the wispiest slice of air. His eyes close before her lips touch his and she boldly sweeps her tongue over his bottom lip just as his fingers sink into the hair over her neck. She feels a vibration that must be a sexual sound from his throat, but all she can hear is the blood thumping through her own ears, and then her tongue is in his mouth, and Rachel squeaks because all she can think is she's never done anything like this ever before, and he tastes _delicious_.

He must have had a mocha for lunch because the mixture of coffee and chocolate on his tongue makes her think of the Dunkin' Donuts three blocks from their high school.

There is a moment of absolute power and bliss where she feels like the most forward girl in the universe; it lasts for an eternity, or at least long enough for her to feel overly confident, and then the hand gripping her neck tightens uncomfortably and the taste of him changes as his tongue thrusts forward and he suddenly invades her mouth and she can feel his teeth, but not in a nice way.

Rachel's only kissed one other boy besides Noah, but this kiss is nothing like those kisses; for that matter, it's nothing like the kisses she shared with him before either. He presses harder until she feels like she's choking on a metallic tang and the pain registers fully in her brain. Shoving him away, her impulse to protect herself kicks in and her hand covers her lips, which throb from the violence of his mouth against hers.

"Get the fuck outta my truck," he says, his voice low and full of menace. She's never heard him sound that way, and the fear that skitters up her spine helps her find the door lock by touch alone.

Shoving it open with her shoulder, she turns and jumps down to the ground, but whirls back quickly to look into his eyes before she shuts the door. He's leaning over the seat, obviously reaching for the door handle all over again. He doesn't allow their eyes to meet, but she can see the dull red color in his cheeks.

As he yanks the door shut, she knows in her gut that he didn't kick her out because he doesn't want her. All the same, the rejection this time makes her cry, and she can't help but wish she could go back to the day before when she didn't know she could feel anything for Noah Puckerman.

*

Puck has always had an impulse control problem. It started when he was small, back before his dad left, and it seemed it would never stop. If someone told him _no, you can't have that,_ almost always, it would be on his mind until he got it.

When he was a kid, it was stuff like cupcakes and Kool-Aid. As he got older, though, the forbidden fruit got more forbidden and less food-like. Usually it was girls. Sometimes it was stuff like the newest X-Box game (trying to shoplift one of those was virtually impossible), or even a position of glory on the football team (if you couldn't be the quarterback, wide receiver was pretty damn hot too). But most often it was girls. Girls at school who only responded to him when he was the biggest jerk in the world, or grown men's wives (his classmates' mothers) who felt neglected and probably hadn't gotten off thanks to someone else in a really long time.

Quinn Fabray had been the ultimate in forbidden fruit because she'd sent out all the signals of wanting to be stolen. Only he had been stupid enough to think that afterwards anything would be different. (It hadn't been.) And he'd felt like a douche _and_ a pussy, and his chest had hurt like it did whenever he thought about his dad walking out all those years before.

So in the middle of the choir room, with his hips against Rachel Berry's in just the right spot—that sweet little notch between her legs feeling carved out especially for him—the flash of that happening all over again had cooled his ardor faster than a husband coming home unexpectedly in the middle of the day. (He'd had to hide under the bed until Mrs. Fredrickson figured out how to make Mr. Fredrickson run out on an errand for her. Not his coolest moment, not by a long shot.)

Rachel was hot, sure, and picking up what he was throwing down no problem, but after the fact? He wasn't going to go there again. No way in fucking hell.

When she shoots up outta nowhere into his truck cab, and he can see that crazy determined we're-doing-it-my-way attitude, he's pissed. But then he's turned on too when he notices the skirt she's wearing is dangerously hiked up because of the effort it had taken for her to get in the truck to begin with. She's totally unaware of it and her mouth is moving, and she's telling him that she wanted him to kiss her. And then, BAM, she's staring at his lips, and then _she's fucking kissing him_ , and the effort of trying not to want her when it's the only thing he can think about coalesces into rage.

Besides, this time, it’s only he who’s told himself he can’t have her. That’s a first, and a really strange situation to find himself in.

After he gets her out of the car and slams the door shut (and locks it), he feels like the lowest form of animal life. Hurting a girl's feelings is one thing, physically causing her pain is totally not his style. His mother would fucking castrate him if she ever knew he'd mashed his mouth so hard over any girl's lips that they'd both tasted blood.

And Rachel has such nice lips, and the way she just kissed him had been enough to make his beat time instantaneous. All he'd have to do is relive her tongue slipping into his mouth and with two strokes of his hand, he'd most likely be done. God, she was fucking with his head far worse than Quinn ever had.

He thinks about jumping out of the car and chasing after her. He could make it up to her, slow and sweet, right here in the parking lot, but he knows being a dick is better (safer) than being a pansy.

His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and he recites low under his breath, "I don't want her, I don't want her, I don't want her."

He doesn't believe in that Voodoo shit, but he wishes he knew a system other than banging the hell out of a chick to get her outta your head. (Even though that one didn't always work either.)

*

He chalks it up to years of friendship with Finn as he approaches Rachel at Temple the next evening. Finn's sense of decency, which is normally so far out of proportion to what people fucking deserve—Puck himself serving as an example—has hammered at his conscience until he literally feels like he's got fucking Jiminy Cricket hanging out on his shoulder. Then his mother insisted that they go to Temple for the first time in like a dinosaur age, and of course Rachel and her two dads are just one pew up and down about five people from his family. She hasn't looked at him since she first noticed them sitting there at the beginning of the service, but her dads have gone towards the front of the synagogue to talk to the Rabbi. She’s just sitting there, so maybe she wants him to talk to her.

His mom’s talking to some ladies she hasn’t seen in a long time and they're oohing and ahhing over how big his little sister is now (remember, they don’t come real regular), so he slides down the pew so he’s right behind her. Leaning forward, he says casually, "Hey, Berry," like they have some sort of relationship. Which they totally don't.

But he sort of, all of a sudden, really wants to have one, and he doesn't know where that came from. He only knows that his usual level of asshattedness reached ridiculous heights that even he can't handle. Her lips look better today, but they were definitely puffier than usual yesterday afternoon at Glee practice. (They hadn't spoken, and she hadn't even looked at him, but instead of feeling vindicated by mission accomplished standards, he'd felt like a criminal.) Even so, she has on a ton of pink lip gloss, which he assumes covers up bruises he caused.

"Noah," she says, nodding at him politely, though only looking at him peripherally. She slings a purse up on to her shoulder and scoots forward like she’s going to leave him sitting there.

"Hey, I mean—“ his hand snags her arm, gently, and stops her from walking away. "Wait up, would ya?"

She swivels on the bench to face him, and her gaze drops pointedly to where his fingers are touching her. He lets her go, but she doesn’t move to leave again. He can see she's pissed, or something—well, she doesn't look like Quinn does when she's angry (there's no mistaking that) but she doesn't have her usual Crazy Happy Eyes and as he looks at her face, her teeth worry her bottom lip, which stirs this insane desire to give her a nice kiss to make up for that last one.

But that's not what this is about. He's just going to apologize, and then he's walking away, like he should have when she asked for her damn book. All of this could have been avoided if he’d just stop thinking with his dick.

He almost snorts in laughter at himself and the bullshit that that is. Well, it’s not bullshit, but it’s not gonna happen either. He’s just got to be smarter about _who_ it is he dicks around with. Rachel Berry’s not a wise choice.

“What do you want?” she asks, and he wonders how long he’s been sitting there looking like a sap.

There's a buzzing in his head, and the background noise of like 50 other people having conversations, but he manages to keep his voice low anyway. "I just wanted to say, y'know, sorry. For yesterday. It was--" and here's where he realizes that he didn't really think it through; a prepared speech would be much better when dealing with Rachel.

"Sexual assault?" she supplies when he falters.

He feels his spine stiffen and he wants to say _fuck you_ but he's sure he can't get away with that inside the synagogue. "Hey, you asked for it," he spits back, which of course, totally negates his apology, but damn him if Rachel doesn't always stir him up, one way or another.

"I asked for a nice kiss, not—“ her eyes shift to something past his shoulder and then she whispers, “—not _that_." Her eyes suddenly look brighter, and the overhead light hits the tears just right so he can't miss them, and he feels about an inch tall. She takes a breath and blinks a couple times and then says in a regular voice, "I understand though. You're attracted to me, but you're still angry about me telling Finn the truth. It's okay, I understand."

Of all the crazy things she could say (and by his count, there could be somewhere in the neighborhood of _a billion_ batshit insane thoughts in her head), that isn't what he expected, and his reaction is instantaneous. "What the fuck?" he breathes, still aware of their non-listening audience. "Rachel," he says seriously, reaching out to grip her shoulder. "It is never okay for a guy to do that. And I'm not mad at you about Finn. God, that's so three months ago. I'm just not into hooking up with another girl who's still hung up on him."

He's done it again—she’s speechless. She's just looking at him, her eyes wider than he's ever seen them before, and her mouth sort of keeps moving like she's trying to say something, but no sound comes out. Finally she seems to become aware of her own flabbergastedness, so she just presses her lips together in a tight line.

Her mouth. Shit, he is so _fucked_. It's like everything about her is a goddamned wet dream and he just never really noticed until right now. Or at least until the last few days.

And yes, even Noah Puckerman feels somewhat bad about a hard-on in a place God might dwell.

"Just stay away from me, if you know what's good for you," he says, and he can't help but realize he means it more for himself than he does for her. He'd pretty much made up his mind after Quinn he wasn't doing this feelings shit anymore, but out of nowhere he's in the middle of something deep that has him educating her about the way men should treat women.

Puck doesn't do this, _ever_. He doesn't _want_ to do this ever. But when she puts her hand over the one he's got resting on her shoulder and says softly, "I don't think I want to know what's good for me, anymore," he thinks he shouldn't be held responsible for what he might do next based on that come on.

"Noah? Who's your friend?"

A litany of every swear word he knows, has ever said, and probably a few he'd missed along the way in his 17 years runs through his head when his mother's hand slides across his back. He stands up abruptly, yanking his hand away from Rachel's shoulder, and looks at his mom who watches Rachel inquisitively.

"Hello, Mrs. Puckerman," Rachel says, also standing. "I'm Rachel Berry. I'm one of Noah's friends from Glee Club."

His mom starts nodding enthusiastically, and he wants to kill himself right then and there, and that's even before she says, "Rachel! Of course. I've heard about what an incredible singer you are. I remember you now, from Sectionals."

She beams, like a fucking lighthouse, and he feels the sweep of it over his face as she looks at him and then back to his mother. "Thank you," she says, and he swears she does a little bouncy curtsy thing. "It's a pleasure to meet you. You have a very fine son," she says, and Puck feels his face go up in flames.

Aside from the fact that Rachel has suddenly morphed into his mother's contemporary by complimenting him in such a way, it's also a big-ass lie, considering the two counts of sexual assault she's been trying to pin on him for the last few days.

His mother's arm surrounds his shoulders and she squeezes him. "I do, don't I?" she says with a laugh. "He's a good boy, even if he has a bit of a potty mouth."

He clenches his jaw not to burst out with some expletive that would showcase just what she's talking about and he squirms away from her embrace. "We've got to go, don't we, Mom?" he grates out.

She glances at him and then looks at her watch. "Oh, you're right, Noah. I have to work tonight, graveyard," she explains to Rachel, who looks like she's hanging on every word. "Usually I'm sleeping now, but I just felt like we needed to come to Temple tonight."

"Well, I'm glad you did," Rachel says meaningfully, her gaze returning to Puck, and lingering. He knows he must look as embarrassed as he feels, but somehow the way she's staring at him doesn't make him feel as stupid as he should. "I'll see you at school?" she says, with just a touch of inflection, like maybe he'd bail and never go back to WMHS ever again.

He clears his throat. "Yeah. Yep. School. See ya there," he chokes out.

 _God, he hates his life._

"Let's go, Bekah," his mother says, gathering his little sister from the end of the pew where she's talking to some little friend of her own. (Who knew Temple could be so social?) Rachel smiles and reaches out to him, her fingers brushing over the bare skin of his forearm. Once his mother is out of ear shot, she leans closer. "I'm not hung up on Finn," she says quietly.

The whole drive home, all he can think is she might as well have cupped his package, because it had had the same effect.

*

Rachel imagines that all day Sunday, Noah must be shoring up his defenses.

She glories in this fantasy, in fact. Because no matter what he says, or how he acts, she knows the truth now. It's all just defense mechanisms to protect his heart, and that makes him even more attractive to her. The idea that she has to fight for what she wants is not new; it's just the way she likes it. She loves a good challenge.

But she plays it cool on Monday. She knows he's expecting her to return to her previous methods—blatant badgering—but her weapon of choice now is surprise. She only says hello to him in the hall when she passes him, she only forces him to stare into her eyes during the part of their routine that calls for it (he's singing the lead with her on their cover of Adam Lambert's "Time for Miracles" for Regionals). The whole week goes by without one confrontation at all.

She doesn't press him in any way. It's just that when she does say hello to him, she says it with a big smile and sometimes a pat on his arm, or a brush of her hand over his elbow. And when they're singing, she goes full throttle (not that she wouldn't do that always, but now that she knows he thinks she's an incredible singer—he told his mother, after all—she puts even more into it). When they have to hold hands or embrace for the dance routine, she gets as close as she can, and she can see the irritation he feels, but she can also feel the proof of his excitement when their bodies brush, so she doesn't let his scowl intimidate her.

It's all leading somewhere, she's sure of it. She has elaborate fantasies about that part too—when he breaks and finally succumbs to his desire for her, it's going to be beautiful. She can be patient, because she's positive it will happen.

She's sitting at Temple the following Saturday night, dreamily contemplating all of it when Rabbi Schwartzman announces that there is a family in their congregation in need of prayers. Rachel takes a moment to listen, and her whole body stiffens when it's announced that Rebekah Puckerman, Noah's little sister, had had her appendix removed late Friday night.

She barely makes it through the sermon because she's antsy with debate. Should she go and see him, or would that be too forward when her secret plan had been to make him come to her? She should just put aside all their push-and-pull stuff and focus on the important thing: that his sister is sick and in the hospital. Or it might just make him angry, when really that's the last thing she wants to do.

In the car, on the way home her father says, "You know what we should do? We should take a meal over to the Puckermans. Don't you think that sounds like a good idea, honey?"

Rachel smiles full tilt, to melt the heart of her father and get him to agree to her taking the food over by herself.

*

"Okay, Ma. If you're sure," Puck says. He hears a knock at the front door as his mother reassures him for the fourth time that everything is fine at the hospital and that she wants to stay another night with his sister, as opposed to him coming down to relieve her. He walks towards the door and says, "Well, you know me, I was just hoping to get out of school." That's true fax, though he's very relieved his sister is going to be okay.

Pulling the door open, he nearly drops the cordless phone when he sees Rachel Berry on his front porch with some sort of baked good in her hands. Scrambling, he hangs on to the phone, just barely, and stares at her nervous smile as his mother goes on and on about how nice everyone at the hospital has been. "I'll come down if you want," he offers again, because if he doesn't have some place to be, something bad is going to happen, he just knows it. Well, maybe not bad, but definitely irreversible.

She tells him emphatically no, and that she'll see him tomorrow, and that she loves him. "I love you, too," he mumbles, looking away from Rachel's face as he says it. "Give Bek a kiss for me."

When he pulls the phone from his ear and pushes the disconnect button, he wants to say something mean. He wants to utter to the universe whatever it will take to get Rachel the hell away from him.

He wants her too much, and nothing good ever comes from that feeling.

"It's a lasagna," she says when he just stares at the tinfoil covered dish in her hands. "I thought maybe you could use it, or your mom would like to know there's something cooked in the house for you, or--"

"Berry," he says, and she stops, which is what he needs. He needs her to stop babbling and just come in his house. He steps back and gestures, and she comes inside. "How did you even know where I live?" he asks, watching her walk into the kitchen. She's wearing a skirt, of course. Because she loves to torture him. She's been doing it all week.

"I phoned Matt; he told me how to find you."

Puck puts the cordless back on the charger by the microwave. "Rutherford, huh? Good call, Rach, no one will ever know you came over this way."

She sets the dish down on the counter and turns to look at him, her eyes sparkling. "Yes, I chose him because I knew he wouldn't gossip."

He doesn't even know if he can dig deep enough to say something offensive so she'll leave in a huff. Truth be told, the last thing he wants is to be alone right now. And she's the only person he wants to be with. And here she is, serving herself up on a platter, practically. The width of the kitchen lies between them, all of six feet.

So he says, "If you don't want what you've been asking for all week, you better leave right now."

She blinks at him, and smooths her hands down the front of her little pleated skirt. "I'm not ready to have sexual intercourse," she states.

He nods. "But other stuff?" He won't be satisfied with just the boob area, but he feels that's more than implied.

She smiles, big and bright, blinding him with white teeth and goodness and the unbelievability of all of this. "Yes, please."

He doesn't respond, because he's using every bit of self-control he possesses not to just tackle her right there.

"Is your sister okay?" she asks, sobering for just a moment.

He shoves his hands into his back pockets and stays where he is. He nods again, clearing his suddenly tight throat. "Yeah, she's gonna be okay. But she's only 11, so my mom didn't want her to be alone at the hospital."

"That's understandable," Rachel says, the nervous smile she wore on the front porch reemerging. She glances around and points at the lasagna. "This was my dad's idea. We heard at Temple earlier about Rebekah's surgery. He said bringing food over was a nice thing to do."

"Are we really going to talk about the lasagna?" he asks with a smirk.

Rachel flushes, and bites her bottom lip. (As if he needed any encouragement.) She shakes her head and laughs a little. "No, I guess not," she says softly. "I guess I'm just surprised that you're, you know, just...accepting it."

"It's free food, whataya want me to say?"

She frowns, and gives him a look. "No, Noah. I mean, accepting... _this_." She points at him and at herself and then gestures between them.

He could keep playing dumb, but he doesn't want to stretch it out anymore. The truth is he wants Rachel Berry to be his girl, even if it means he gets slaughtered again. He's had a whole week to weigh his options, and no matter what argument he comes up with, the reality of her presence trumps any fear he has. Or, at the very least he wants her more than he wants to keep trying to hold her at arm's length.

And let's face it, she's Rachel Berry. She's not going to let it go, even if she's been playing him easy this week. Besides, she totally wants him, and he can see it every time she looks at him, and it makes him feel...well, it makes him _feel_. And he likes how it makes him feel.

Even though it scares the shit out of him.

She walks towards him and he's reminded of that moment in the choir room just a little over a week ago. Black dress, shiny tights, high heels. He's gonna have to take her out some time, in that outfit.

Just not tonight.

She stops in front of him and looks up at him. Her expression isn't as confident as it had been every time she passed him the hall at school, or every time she cock-teased him in front of everyone in Glee rehearsal, and it sort of sets him at ease.

He cups her face in his hands and rubs his thumb over her full bottom lip. It's naked this time, no pink lip gloss to cover up his freak out. "Will you be my boyfriend, Noah?" she asks, her little hands gripping at his sides, her fingers digging into his ribs.

He leans down and kisses her, slowly. He sips at her bottom lip, rims the tender inside with his tongue and then presses a hard one full mouth to mouth. Sliding his hands down her arms and over her hips, he cups her ass to bring her body flush up against his. "Yes," he whispers in her ear and she gasps either in response to his boner pressed to her belly, or the word itself.

Rachel's arms snake upwards, wrapping around his neck and giving him the leverage he needs to lift her up so their bodies fit together just right. Their lips meet again, tongues sliding slickly together, and he groans against her mouth. "You've been driving me crazy," he murmurs.

"Good!" she says with a laugh.

"I'm gonna blow your brains out tonight," he says lowly, pressing his lips to her jaw.

Her fingers comb through his mohawk and she says with a grin, "To quote someone famous: Bring it."


End file.
